


Customer Service

by Beth Harker (chiana606)



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: Body Horror, Hurt/Comfort, I have no idea where I was going with this and I've written myself into a corner, M/M, Post-Canon, Probably Abandoned, Work In Progress, if somebody else wants to finish this just ask and I'll give the fic over to you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-22
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-12-18 19:34:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11881329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiana606/pseuds/Beth%20Harker
Summary: After the Squip tries and fails to reboot itself, Jeremy is given a number to call.  Also, he's a total mess, and Michael is there for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for mentions of vomit, insects, and uncomfortable brain symptoms.

Jeremy had been feeling weird all day. The fact was, he felt weird every day, but there were different kinds of weird. There was _Typical Jeremy Weird_ , which was to say a little nervous, and a little conspicuous, sweaty at the palms, and prone to fidgeting and falling over from rocking too far back in his chair. There was also _Squip Weird_ , which mostly manifested itself in the form of shame and seething hatred towards all the little quirks that made up _Typical Jeremy Weird_ , but also included a lot of fun bonuses, like the disembodied voice of Keanu Reeves periodically floating up from the recesses of his mind to let him know he'd be better off dead. Jeremy had ways of coping with _Squip Weird_ , as evidenced by the fact that nearly three months had passed since the incident, and he was still surviving. He had ways to deal with _Typical Jeremy Weird_ too, rules that he'd developed over seventeen years of trial and error, until they’d formed a crude and imperfect toolbox full of stop gap methods to get him through each day. Even during those times when _Typical Jeremy Weird_ and _Squip Weird_ combined together and went in for the attack, Jeremy had at least a couple of defense strategies. 

But today? Today wasn't _Squip Weird_ as far as Jeremy could see, and it definitely wasn't _Typical Jeremy Weird_. It was just weird. _Weird Weird_. As in totally unfamiliar. It was like his spine was infested with ants on the inside, and they were crawling lightly around inside of him. Or maybe it was like a pair of soft fingers gently carding themselves through his brain. Nothing was painful, but everything was queasy and wrong. 

And of course, it was all happening at school, in a classroom where Jeremy couldn't get up and do anything about it, or even grab his phone out of his pocket and start looking stuff up on WebMD. He shifted in his chair, trying to dispel whatever was going on. He pressed each of his fingers one by one into his palm, and did his best to concentrate on the pressure. At least it was the last period of the day. If he Jeremy could just make it to the end of the lesson, maybe he could find Michael, get on his car, get home, and be bizarre and uncomfortable in friendlier surroundings. 

Something began to move in front of Jeremy’s eyes. It looked like bubbles, but nobody was blowing bubbles in the classroom. He looked around for anybody who could help him, but out of the squad, only Chloe shared this class with him, and she was off in the most far away corner of the classroom, curling her hair around and around her finger and staring up at the teacher. 

Jeremy watched her so longingly that anybody who didn't know better might have thought he was still trying to sleep his way through the popular girls of Middleborough, and she was his next intended conquest. Not so. Very much not so. Oh god, now Jeremy was breaking out in a cold sweat that had at least shades of _Typical Jeremy Weird_. Shakily, he tour a page out of his notebook, and even more shakily he wrote out a note: 

_does having a stroke feel like your literally being stroked by insects_

Jeremy crumpled the note, getting ready to throw it. If Christine were here, and he chucked it at her, she'd probably call 911. If Rich were the note’s intended recipient, then he'd get a response asking where he thought he was being stroked, and whether or not it felt good. Jenna would possibly have some clue what was going on, because her mom was a nurse. Michael would either panic, or else know exactly what to do to fix everything. Chloe was a wild card. 

The spinal ants were moving faster now. The feeling was akin to electricity, and that was similar to _Squip Weird_ the same way that sweating harkened back to _Typical Jeremy Weird_. Then the nausea hit, and that was _Get Out of the Classroom Now Weird_. 

Jeremy needed to get out now. He needed to get out now.

Jeremy practically vaulted over his desk in his eagerness to reach the door and escape, knocking over his notebook, his pen, and the crumpled up note that he still hadn't managed to send to Chloe. 

The weirdness that came over Jeremy as he reached the bathroom was definitely a _Going To Die_ type of weird, which was also a _Squip Weird_ , and Jeremy should have expected that from the start, because while he couldn't blame every kind of unexplained bullshit on his squip, it was usually a good beginning. 

Jeremy collapsed to his knees right outside the door of the one stall in the boy’s bathroom, his forehead slamming hard against it in a way that was sure to leave marks later, but which he barely noticed, at least not any more than he noticed the spasms in his stomach, and the sour burning in his throat. 

The voice that was speaking to Jeremy took up all of his attention. 

**Accessing neural memory. Accessing muscle memory. Continuing to attempt neural memory access. Accessing of neural memory 2 percent complete, estimated time to completion two point five minutes. You may experience slight discomfort. Accessing of neural memory 3 percent complete. Estimated time to completion nine days and fifty six minutes. You may continue to experience slight discomfort. Accessing of neural memory 3 percent complete. Estimated time to completion ninety-nine years and thirteen seconds. You may continue to experience slight discomfort. Neural memory can not be accessed at this time. Squip Reboot procedure failure. Begin system shut down. Please contact customer support at 1-800-632-8847. Thank you for choosing Squip International.**

The pain retreated. The ants, and the stroking, and the bubbles in front of Jeremy’s vision faded away. All he was left with was a normal headache, which Jeremy responded to with a normal whimper, curling up into a normal fetal position, right there in his gross but undeniably normal puddle of regurgitated cafeteria food. 

Another thing that was objectively not strange was that Michael was there now, leaning over Jeremy. That boy had an utterly predictable way of coming to find Jeremy when he was at his worst.


	2. Chapter 2

**vroom vroom**

Micheal’s phone buzzed right as the school bell rang. The little panel on the front told him it was Chloe. With a quizzical frown, and without getting up, he flipped it open to see what she wanted. 

- _so either your boyf’s training for the olympics or something's seriously up._ -

- _?_ \- Micheal texted back, partially because a long string of question marks was essentially his mental state at the moment, and partially because his new phone was objectively the stupidest purchase he'd ever made. Sure, it was retro as hell, and shaped like a race car, and it had tiny “headlights” that blinked on and off in time with the ring tone when people called him, and it made car noises whenever he received a message, but texting on it was just the worst, and the only internet capabilities it had were for aim, which nobody had used since like 2004. 

**vroom vroom**

- _He leapt over like two entire desks and ran out of the classroom. I gave his stuff to Jenna btw. Got somewhere I need to be._ -

- _where is he_ -

Michael’s mind was already filling with possibilities as he typed (slowly, and laboriously, since each number on the phone represented about a zillion letters that he needed to cycle through). Chloe almost never messaged him personally, and while she'd come a long way from her days as the Queen Bitch of the school (at least as far as interactions in their little social group went), she wasn't exactly the type to keep tabs on everyone's well-being. Michael was contemplating packing up his stuff when ( **vroom** fucking **vroom** ) Chloe texted him back. 

- _Use your Germ Radar. Anyway, this kind of shit is your business, not mine._

There were any number of ways that Michael could have replied to this, things like _no shit_ and _great, thanks for your illustrious help ms valentine_ but he didn't have time because…

**vroom vroom**

- _< 3_-

**vroom vroom**

- _Keep me updated!_ -

**vroom vroom**

The last text from Chloe was a string of emojis, which Michael’s phone interpreted as little white squares, because emojis were right up there with ease of communication on the list of things that Michael had sacrificed for the sake his aesthetic. He gave the thing an annoyed shake, and then hit the little green button to call Jeremy. 

No answer. 

Another call. 

Nothing. 

Another call. 

Michael’s phone was definitely thwarting him on purpose, and things with Jeremy were definitely bad. It was like awareness washed over Michael in that moment, because he was alone in an empty classroom, and his current method of finding out what was happening with Jeremy wasn't working, and holy shit he needed to use his _feet_ and his eyes, and he needed to get up like five minutes ago and get Jeremy before everything that was going on got worse. 

Unless nothing was going on, which was a possibility, but not a possibility that mattered, especially not when every danger alert in Michael’s brain was finally kicking into gear, and going off all at once. He threw all of his things into his backpack, and rushed off to find his friend. 

——————

Jeremy wasn't by his locker, nor was he by Michael’s locker. He wasn't waiting by Michael’s car, and he wasn't in the first boys’ bathroom that Michael checked, nor was he in the newly-minted gender neutral bathroom on the third floor of the school. He was in the _other_ boys’ bathroom, the one that Michael hadn't checked first, because the rules of the game were convoluted and stated that nothing could ever be easy, ever. 

Things were… grosser than Michael had expected, but at maybe a somewhat lower level of badness than the panicked voice in the back of Michael’s voice had been warning him to expect. The situation went kinda like this—

con: Jeremy was lying in a pool of his own vomit. 

con: The room stank to high heaven.

pro: The smell kept anybody else from coming in. Three cheers for the illusion of privacy.

pro: Jeremy was breathing!! So, totally not dead. 

pro: Jeremy kinda mouthed Michael’s name when Michael knelt over him. 

con: The knees of Michael's jeans got wet in the process, which _ew ew ew gross gross gross bad bad bad_

pro: But Jeremy was conscious! Conscious and capable of seeing and acknowledging Michael. The whole seeing Michael thing wasn't always a given. Squip bullshit and all that. 

con: Jeremy started crying and curled in tighter on himself when Michael asked if he was okay. 

Michael didn't know what was going on, but he'd gotten pretty good at pretending over the course of the last few months. Jeremy’s squip adventures had amped up at least a dozen of the problems that the two of them had always faced together, and added a weird-ass sci-fi haze to the whole thing, but Michael was okay at finding solutions, especially short term ones to whatever was most immediate. Like, clearly, there was some underlying disaster going on, but the first thing that Michael needed to do was get Jeremy cleaned up and not terrified, and if he could concentrate on that and keep his own hands from shaking, then they could figure out the next step. 

So, Michael put his hand on Jeremy’s back. He spoke softly to him, and got him to sit up on the toilet in the stall. He asked him if he knew what was up, and if he thought he would be sick again, and if he wanted Michael to call the doctor or his dad or 911 or…

All of this got the same frantic shake of the head. 

“D-don't call anyone,” Jeremy said. “I d-don't know if it's a good— a good idea a-and I don't— I don't remember the–the-the number. I'm sorry… I… I'm sorry.” 

“Hey, shhh…” Michael put placed hands on either side of Jeremy’s head, trying to hold his gaze. It was never good to let him get into an apology loop, especially when things were going bad like this, because they had a tendency to feed into themselves and just go on and one and on. “Hey, buddy, it's okay. We’re okay. I’ve got lots of numbers saved if we decide to call anybody, so you don't have to remember anything, okay?” 

A nod. Michael let his hands fall, wiping them on his pants. “We should probably, um… get you cleaned up.” 

Jeremy’s arms went around himself, but he nodded, so Micheal got to work, emptying most of the brown paper towels out of the plastic dispenser by the door, and dampening them in the sink, then slathering them with yellow, astringent smelling school bathroom soap. 

“So– ” Michael cleared his throat. He squatted down in front of Jeremy, hands going to the sides of his t-shirt, tugging at it lightly. “I'm just gonna… is it okay if I…” 

Jeremy was quiet at first, hands opening and closing the way they sometimes did when he was trying to calm himself down, or distract himself from the voices in his head. Then he wiped his eyes, and kind of laughed. 

“Are… are you seriously asking if you can undress me in the school bathroom, because…” 

“Well, I can't say this is exactly how I imagined it, but…” Michael’s mouth clamped shut, because holy shit, did he just seriously say that? Jeremy barked out another, surprised sounding laugh, stopped, and then just kept going, hard and wheezy, doubled over himself. 

“Okay!” Michael said. “Good. Great. I’d say you’re recovered enough to clean and dress yourself! Awesome. Fantastic.” He all but threw the wadded up paper towels at Jeremy, who kept laughing for a minute or two, even after Michael closed the door of the stall to give him privacy. He ran the water in the sink, splashing himself in the face a few times, as though he could wash the stupid blush off his face. 

“For the record,” Michael called through the door. “All my thoughts about you are totally pure, and I'm about to make a great sacrifice by lending you my hoodie to protect your dignity, even though you, like, super stink right now.” 

“Okay,” Jeremy answered, and it was a little disappointing. A better response would have been a continuation of their banter, but it's not like Michael can blame him all things considered. Michael sighed, and pulled his hoodie off over his head. He hadn't been lying about the sacrifice, and the sweaty T-shirt he had on beneath the hoodie was testament to that. He just didn't like to take the thing off at school, not even on days like today, when it was nearly eighty degrees outside. It was like his armor, and without it he felt vulnerable to attack on all sides. 

“Hey Michael?” 

“Yeah Jer?” 

“I feel like shit.” 

“Kinda figured.” Michael reached up, and dangled his hoodie over the door of the bathroom stall until he felt Jeremy take it. He waited a minute, before knocking on the door.

No answer. 

He knocked again. 

Nothing. 

“Jeremy?” 

“Sorry. Yeah. I was nodding. Guess you couldn't hear that.” 

Michael opened the stall door. Jeremy still looked like a wreck, but he was cleaner now, and he’d managed okay with dressing himself. Michael reached up to touch Jeremy’s cheeks and forehead, like he was checking for a fever. The other boy doesn't have one, but he closed his eyes at the touch. If anything, he felt clammy and cold. On impulse, Michael pulled the hood up over Jeremy’s head.

**vroom vroom**

**vroom vroom**

**vroom vroom**

“Your um… ridiculous flip phone thing is making car noises again.” 

“That’s because I'm cool.” 

**vroom vroom**

“I'm also popular,” Michael teased.

“Because everybody admires your cool phone,” Jeremy agreed. 

“Exactly.” 

Silence. And then: 

“Michael. I… um… I think we… I– I mean I. I might have a huge problem, and I need… I dunno. Help? More red? M-maybe a lobotomy.” 

“I can provide two out of those three things.” 

**vroom vroom**

“Thanks Michael. You’re the best.”


	3. Chapter 3

As soon as he got into Michael's car, Jeremy leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the passenger side window. Even after cleaning up as best he could, he still reeked, and being inside the stuffy confines of Michael’s car just made it more obvious. 

“Just let me check my phone, then we’re outta here. I swear, if it's my mom…”. Michael trailed off, replaced by the little click of him flipping his phone open. “Shit,” he said. 

“What is it? What happened?” Jeremy’s head snapped up so that he could look at Michael. Big mistake. A wave of nausea crashed over Jeremy, and he curled back into the window. 

“Let’s get you back to my place,” Michael said, rubbing Jeremy’s back for a second, before starting up the car, to which Jeremy only nodded. He closed his eyes, not because he expected to sleep, but because he felt like he was inside a fish bowl, looking out through a murky veil of water at a distorted version of the world. 

“Chloe and Christine are texting me a ton,” Michael said, a note of caution in his voice. “Jake too. Rich had some kind of seizure or something. Probably at the same time _you_ had some kind of seizure or something.” 

“Ah.” Jeremy couldn't shake the feeling that he should say more. Michael’s phone kept making car noises the whole way home. Jeremy found himself wondering if it was trying to communicate with Michael’s cruiser. If so, it probably wasn't easy. It was like they spoke two different dialects of Car-tonese, one with a junky-gonna-breakdown any second rumble, and the other shriller and speedier. This… _wasn't_ what he was supposed to be thinking about. 

“You hanging in there?” Michael asked. 

“Mmm.” 

“Good, ‘cause we’re here.” 

“Well, I am at least.” Jeremy could practically hear Michael rolling his eyes. It was a nice sound. Michael had really nice eyelashes behind his glasses, not that Jeremy was looking at him. He was too busy doing his stinky rag doll impression. Also, Rich had had some kind of seizure. Michael and Jeremy got out of the car. 

The Mell household was bigger than Jeremy’s, and frequently louder, except when it wasn't. Luckily today was one of those days when it wasn't, because Mrs. Mell was still at work, and Mr. Mell was existing at his usual levels of not in the fucking country. 

“You wanna start right in with the red, or——?” Michael let the question hang in the air between them. They both knew that taking the stuff, while sometimes necessary, was never a pleasant experience for Jeremy. He reserved it only for times when the ghostly remainders of the Squip were at their absolute worst. More often than not, Jeremy ignored the occasional quiet taunts from the thing in his head, relying on the volume of his own voice to drown it out. After all, besides the pain it caused, Michael’s supply of Mountain Dew Red was far from unlimited, and neither of them were sure what the stuff actually _did_ to Jeremy’s brain while it was making him feel like his head was burning from the inside out. 

“What about Rich?” 

“Yeah. He's on the way, along with like everybody, so it's basically up to you whether you want to do the whole screaming and cuddling routine with or without an audience.” 

“Uhg,” Jeremy sat down on Michael’s couch, aching head in his hands. He didn't need something that was going to make him feel worse than he already did, but he needed the red. “Yeah. Hand it over.” 

Michael nodded. For a few minutes he disappeared into his basement, and when he came back, he was carrying a paper dixie cup, like the ones they used to give you pills in the hospital. The first time they'd done this after the play, Jeremy had spilled most of a bottle of the stuff all over himself while he was convulsing. Now, he took the paper cup from Michael’s hand, studying with grim determination. 

“Bottoms up,” he said, swallowing the red in one gulp, before curling preemptively into Michael. The pain usually didn't start instantaneously, but they both knew it was coming, and sure enough it did, with a ferocity that Jeremy hoped he could someday learn to steel himself against. 

Before the Squip, Jeremy had never known that pain could have a color. The kind that usually accompanied Mountain Dew Red was yellowy blue (but not green) and white and _searing_ , tapering off into an inky purple-black, and then Michael. Jeremy was used to Michael’s hoodie being the first thing he saw when he came to. This time he was wearing the hoodie himself, so what he got instead was arm-flesh, which was so disorienting that he almost didn't know where he was. 

The voices around him didn't do anything to help with the confused, lost feeling. At first he thought that they were in his head, and he'd put himself through hell and not even gotten results, then he managed to identify one of those voices as Christine, and another as Brooke, and he realized that the others must have arrived while he was screaming his brains out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chloe isn't the most reliable narrator. Take her with a grain of salt.

Doing drugs could have serious consequences. Chloe had learned all about that way back in second grade, when a friendly police officer had come to give her class their very first bout of drug resistance education. So, yeah, she’d known, pretty much since infancy, all about how drugs could kill you and turn you into a monster that disappointed your parents and stole candy out of the mouths of babies, but no one had ever prepared her for how one really weird not-actually-ecstasy trip could unravel three years worth of high school social hierarchy, and throw you into this strange neural networking scheme with your ex-boyfriend, your current girlfriend, Jenna, and the Nerd Brigade. More importantly, nobody had ever told Chloe that she'd drop all of her shit on a Thursday afternoon, because the Nerd Brigade needed her support, but it wasn't like she was going to let the rest of the squad party without her. 

Rich had had his flaily freak-out thing at 2:15, according to messages passed around in the group chat. Jeremy had leapt dramatically out of the classroom at around 2:10 according to Chloe’s eyes. That'd put them having their robot doom attacks at approximately the same time. At 3:45, after much conversation, Brooke arrived at Chloe’s house, with Christine already in tow, to pick her up and deliver her to the upcoming game of Scooby Doo style mystery solving. Rich, Jake, and Jenna were on the way in Jenna’s car, because Jenna’s mom was a nurse and she probably thought that she should get exclusive access to Rich by virtue of her ancestral medical knowledge or something. 

When they got to Michael’s house, Jeremy was screaming in Michael’s arms like the gates of hell had opened up, and they were in his throat. Michael gave them a wave and his signature cringey peace-sign of abject discomfort. _Weird._

“There are…um…. snacks and drinks in the fridge,” Michael shouted over Jeremy’s shouting. 

“IS HE OK??????????” Christine Canigula shouted even louder. She sat down on the couch, and put her hands on Jeremy’s back. “Are you okay?” she asked more quietly. Predictably, no answer, unless you counted Michael mumbling something about auditions for a death metal band, that might have been witty coming from someone who wasn't such an total loser. Chloe grabbed Brooke by the sleeve, and pulled her out towards the kitchen. 

“We’re not actually getting snacks, are we?” Brooke asked.

“What do I look like, fucking Martha Stewart?” Chloe grinned back at Brooke, who was looking adorably concerned about the whole situation. With the precision of someone who’d already been stuck having to make the best of a stint of hanging out at Michael’s house an entire four times already, Chloe opened the glass cabinet where Michael’s pilot dad collected (but did not drink) a variety of liquors from around the world. She found something clear in a bottle that was shaped like a dragon, and started pouring it into glasses. It smelled like a combination of nail polish remover and rotten pineapple, so she mixed it with coke, before refilling the bottle with water, and replacing it on the shelf.

“Aren't you worried?” Brooke asked.

Chloe didn't want to say how worried she was. She didn't even want to think about it, so she didn't. 

“I'm trying to give them some privacy,” Chloe explained, since that was true, and seemed better than getting mushy and concerned like Christine. “Mike might suck at talking like a person, but he was totally trying to get us out of there.” 

“Oh.” Brooke took a glass from Chloe, and sipped it (prettily, because everything she did was pretty). 

Chloe also sipped on her drink, and tried not to gag, because it was the literal worst. She could feel the waves of worry emanating off of Brooke. She could also hear Jeremy continuing to screech in the living room. She felt bad for him. The sting of Halloween night, when he'd led her on and then rejected her, had had plenty of time to fade, and be replaced by a keen awareness of just how hapless Jeremy Heere was. He was like a poor little lost puppy humping a lamppost on a cold winter’s day, who you couldn't even hate for being gross, because he was just so excruciatingly well-meaning and non-malicious.

As for Michael, he was definitely the lamppost in the scenario that Chloe was imagining. Like a lamppost, he had no personality to speak of, unless one was to count listening to music and glaring as a personality. Jeremy had gotten more normal over the past year or so. Michael stayed incomprehensible out of spite. Even his retro bullshit aesthetic was a way of avoiding and pretending to be superior over everybody else. The kid couldn't so much as join in on their group chat, because he had a dumb flip-phone and a preoccupation with pretending it was 1999. 

“To Michael Mell!” Chloe raised her glass, and took a big gulp. 

“You know, he's not as bad as you think he is.” 

“That's only ‘cause he doesn't irrationally hate you.” 

Brooke shrugged. She couldn't say much to that, because Chloe was right. “Do you ever worry about all this Squip stuff?” she asked instead. 

“Not when I can help it. Besides, we had ours in for what, an hour tops?””

“Not even that long, but last night… I had this dream, where Taylor Swift was singing a cover of ‘Call Me, Maybe’, and she had this number for me to call. It was really vivid. To be honest, it scared me a lot.” 

Chloe frowned. It was probably nothing, but still. 

“I won't let anything bad happen to you,” Chloe promised. 

Outside, Jeremy stopped screaming. That was Chloe and Brooke’s cue to re-enter the scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a dream about Be More Chill where the company that makes Squips teamed up with Duolingo to create these Universal Translator Pills, but they were like this evil brain owl that was a combination of the worst aspects of Duo and Squips, in that all they did was ask you to translate increasingly nonsensical sentences while tearing down your self-esteem and also taking over the world


	5. Chapter 5

Rich was sitting in the back of his car while Jenna drove, and Jake tried to make jokes to cover how concerned he was.

Rich had spent a good half hour convulsing in the front seat of said car, right when he was getting ready to drive home for the day. At least he hasn't started the thing yet, but fuck. 

Rich Goranski had had his Squip for almost two years— long enough to forget how hellish it had been at the start. He'd had it out for just a few months, which hadn't given him much time to reassemble his basic humanity, but it had given him plenty of time to come up with theories on what Mr. Evil Tic Tac had done to his brain while it was in there. Maybe his priorities were in the wrong place, just like they'd always been. At least now he had the freedom to stand in the shower some mornings until the water went freezing and he missed the first period at school, because he was so goddamned absorbed in pseudo-scientific over-analysis that he lost track of what he was doing, and he didn't have a nefarious brain roommate to tell him when to pull himself together and get dressed anymore. 

So, it went like this: Squips started small, about the size of a breath mint. They had no room for a USB drive and no room for a headphone jack, and unlike Apple’s shitty products, they didn't need one. 

(Not that Rich was still bitter that he couldn't shove a normal ass USB into Jake’s “futuristic” MacBook computer without buying additional equipment, but it was serious bullshit.) 

But Squips. They started out small. You could swallow one, and it would disintegrate into a million tiny pieces and swarm you all at once, in a burst of pain that’d tell you right from the get go that you’d fucked up bad. The pieces, those microscopic bits of metal, would then implant themselves in your brain, your spine, your tear ducts, wherever. Like, when Rich had been in the hospital, his x-rays had made it look like he was full of spiderwebs and constellations, and nobody could understand why. The only reason he wasn't still being studied like a specimen in a Petri dish was that his health insurance company didn't want to pay for that, not even for the greater good of humanity or whatever.

(Jeremy “no-health-insurance-and-no-vaccinations-we-die-like-men-who-are-actually-sad-neglected-children” Heere had gotten off even easier, lucky bastard.)

Now, no one had ever bothered to tell Rich exactly how Squips worked, least of all his Squip, but he had his theories. One was that the longer you had one, the more it could form pathways and integrate with you. That'd explain why Jeremy got way more fun filled post Squip side effects than the rest of the squad put together, and why Rich got even more of them than Jeremy. 

One thing that Rich got that Jeremy didn't was a certain awareness of what the other boy was doing, left over from the time when their Squips had been synched. It wasn't that strong, but if Jeremy had a panic attack, for instance, Rich would become uneasy. If Jeremy fell down a flight of stairs, Rich would ache a little. If Jeremy spent all of his time lusting over freaking _Michael Mell_ while simultaneously denying it (even to himself), it rubbed off on Rich until he found himself in loving contemplation of the finer aspects of headphones, dandruff, and antisocial tendencies. It sucked out loud, but that was how things were. 

If it weren't for Mountain Dew Red, Rich might not have ever mentioned their latent one-sided mental connection to Jeremy. The kid had enough trouble existing as it was, and the last thing he needed was to worry about how Rich might be getting echoes of all his problems, especially when Rich was the source of all those problems. Thing was, when Jeremy took Red, it hurt like hell, and Rich needed some warning to deal with that, especially considering he had a car and all. He didn't think that his first fit that day had been Jeremy induced (if it had been, there wouldn't have been the thing with his Squip’s voice, and that damned phone number). His second one _definitely_ was. 

And it probably looked weird to Jake and Jenna. After all, Rich had gone from annoyed and tired to actively screaming, and finished off a good fifteen minutes later with an exclamation of _god fucking damnit Jeremy Heere, fucking remember to text me next time you fucking ass fuck_ , so yeah. That must’ve totally looked weird. 

Luckily, they were all used to weird by now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure where the idea of a Rich being semi-linked with Jeremy icame from, but I haven't seen it done before, so I figured why not? 
> 
> My theory here is that Rich gets about 2% of whatever Jeremy is feeling. So, if we're talking something minor, like a stubbed toe, then Rich won't notice it at all. If it's something major, he will. 
> 
> I'm tempted to write a separate fic about the concept. I'll admit that it doesn't seem like the most likely scenario, but the whole point of fan fic is to play around with random ideas, right?


	6. Chapter 6

Normally a drink of Mountain Dew Red did wonders for quieting down the thing in Jeremy’s brain, but it also put him out of commission for the rest of the day. It was something that Michael could understand. Spending fifteen minutes deeply overtaken by a screaming fit of agony would probably be enough to take the fight out of anybody. As such, Michael didn't have high expectations for how much Jeremy would be able to contribute to the upcoming meeting of the Weird Squip Shit Committee. He just waited for Jeremy to be quiet, and when he finally was, Michael shifted him in his arms so that they were both in a more comfortable position, and mentally prepared himself to fill him in on everything later. As Chloe reentered the room, Michael glared at her to keep her from commenting. 

“So, which one of you stinks?” Chloe asked, because apparently Michael’s glare hadn't been scary enough. 

“I don't know about you,” Brooke said, in a bright voice that meant she was trying to shut Chloe up, and preempt any answer from Michael with something irrelevant, “but these coke-and-whatever's are the worst thing I've ever smelled, or tasted. Speaking of which, we made enough for everybody!” She handed handed a drink to Michael, who took it, and Christine, who grimaced and set it aside.

“So this is your contribution to this… whatever we’ve got going on?” Michael kept his eyes trained on Chloe. 

“My time is my contribution,” Chloe said. “Remember how I have shit to do? I'm not doing that, ‘cause I'm stuck dealing with this instead.” She sat down in the big recliner, usually reserved for Michael’s dad when he was around. 

“What is _this_ anyway?” Christine asked. She was next to Jeremy and Michael on the couch, her hand resting solidly on Jeremy’s back. “Because all I've heard is that Jeremy had a thing, and Rich had a thing, and then I got here and Jeremy was having a thing _again_. Is this something that's going to happen to all of us? And where is Rich? He left at the same time we did. He should be here by now.” 

“Speak of the devil.” Chloe gestured towards the door. Nothing happened. “Well, shit. He missed his cue.” She leaned back against the recliner cushions, and took another sip of her drink. Michael took a sip too. He wasn't much of a drinker, but he was an opportunist, and he wasn't going to let perfectly good disgusting alcohol go to waste when it was delivered straight to his hand, especially not on a day like today. 

“Is Jeremy going to be alright?” Christine asked. 

Michael sighed, and rubbed Jeremy’s arm. 

“That's not exactly comforting,” Christine said. 

“It's all good. This is super normal. Boring even. Except for the thing at school today. That was pretty bad. And the thing with Rich.”

"Speak of the devil." Again, Chloe gestured towards the door, and again it did not open. Brooke giggled. "Well, damn," said Chloe. "I hope he’s okay.". 

Suddenly, Jeremy pushed his way out of Michael's embrace, sitting bolt upright, looking for all the world like a marionette that somebody had just yanked upwards after a few days of neglect. "I forgot to text him," he said. "Before taking the red. He's going to be pissed."

"Well, look whose suddenly coherent," Chloe quipped. 

"Why would you need to text him?" Brooke asked. 

Jeremy just groaned, and face planted back into Michael, as though his metaphorical puppet master had peaced out again. "Because the side-effects of edible technology are really, really, really weird,” he muttered against Michael’s shoulder. 

At that moment, the door finally opened, and Rich came in, half pushing, half leaning on Jake's wheelchair, while Jenna trailed behind. Rich didn't look floppy and out of it the way that Jeremy did, but a certain tightness about his jaw and the corners of his eyes belayed the fact that he really should have been passed out somewhere, and was fighting it off. He looked grimly, tiredly resigned. Jeremy turned his head to see the other boy, and let out a slow breath that Michael could feel against his neck. He sat up straight, and squared his shoulders. Michael could practically see the gears turning in Jeremy's mind, and those traitorous gears were whispering that if Rich was able to pull himself together in the face of everything, them Jeremy was sure as hell going to do the same. 

"What’s up motherfuckers?" Rich plopped down onto the couch, next to Christine. "So, what I’m seeing here is that Heere looks like shit, and doesn't have the human decency to fucking text a guy before unleashing the fires of hell inside his skull, so thanks for that. Chloe is half drunk. Michael resents that, and just wants to like, lie in bed spooning Jeremy like the good bro that he is. Christine is worried about Jeremy, and also herself and all of her friends, because who wouldn't be? Brooke is thinking about how her girlfriend is pretty, but kind of mean. Is that everything?" 

Rich had kind of an action hero stance going on as he spoke, but his ever-present lisp spoiled the effect somewhat. Michael was pretty sure that the only reason he could stand Rich was because of that lisp. Rich’s demeanor tended toward harsh and abrasive, even when he was going for friendly, and if that had been accompanied by the same voice that Michael had known in his bully of two years before that bully became a friend, well, he wasn't not sure if he would be able to deal with it.

Jenna raised her hand. "You forgot me."

"You're thinking of how to describe this situation on social media later, preferably without pissing any of us off too much."

Jake raised his hand. "Me too."

"You're sitting around being sexy and perfect. Sorry for leaving you out, but its not exactly status update if it’s always true."

"What about you?" Jeremy asked. "What happened to you, man? Did it try to restart?”

Rich sighed. He started to fidget with the hem of his shirt, and then stopped himself, a mannerism that Michael had also come to notice in Jeremy, left over from months of the Squip not letting him behave like a freaking person. 

"Yeah,” Rich said. “Something like that. It tried to boot up, but..." 

"It couldn't, right?" Jeremy's voice was high, almost excited, but that could be it. Maybe aggravated was a better word. 

"Right. The installation procedures were like, all over the place." 

"Ten percent complete, ninety-eight years, two percent complete, ten minutes..."

"Right, right. And then that phone number."

Jeremy opened his mouth to say something, but Christine beat him to it. 

"The phone number!" she said. "I dreamt about that last night! Hilary Clinton wanted me to call this customer service representative to show my support, and have her reinstated in her rightful role as president of... well, my brain. She said something about how it was even more of a mess than the United states is right now. Don’t you find that unnecessarily mean? Because I totally find that unnecessarily mean."

"Oh my god," Brooke interjected. "I had a dream like that too! Only not with Hilary, thank god. Taylor Swift was singing a phone number for me to call... and, well, I still remember the song a little bit. it was something like, 'Reactivate me. I'll make you hi-ip. just call this number, to fix your your squip.". 

Rich slow clapped, as Brooke finished singing. "Better than and Hilary Clinton. By the way, Chris, if she’s mean to you, don't take it personally. This might be the saddest story I’ve ever heard.” 

"I got a phone number too,” Jeremy said. 

"Uh... my squip told me to buy an axolotl," Jake added. Everyone turned to look at him. "You know, like one of those little pink amphibians with the fake jester crowns? I guess my squip is into them or something. basically gave me a heart attack, though. Like, the thing hadn't said a word to me since the play, and suddenly it wanted me to get a new pet. Not what I wanted out of my day, even if axolotls are pretty cool.” 

"Mine... um..." Jenna took a deep breath. "Tells me to eat kale sometimes? I guess it’s like a superfood, but anyway, thats the only thing it ever says, plus she says it in Spanish, which is weird considering I don't speak Spanish. No phone number, though."

“I should ditch you all,” said Chloe.

"Did your Squip tell you that?" Christine asked

“No. My mom. She thinks I could do better than you lot, and frankly she's right. Anyway, no phone number here, thank god. And if my Squip ever so much as says a word to me again, I'm gonna kick her ass. Hey, Brooke, do you want me to kick _your_ Squip's ass?". 

"My squip tells me to buy ceramic dragons on eBay and kill you all," Michael said, and oh god did that ever gain him some horrified looks. "What? I’m just trying to fit in.". 

"You don't have a Squip,” Jeremy said, like he desperately needed to reverify that fact right then and there. His face, already pale, had taken on a sickly sheen that made Michael feel hella guilty. 

"Dude, no. That’s the last thing I’d ever get."

"Good. Just, don't even joke about getting one, okay?"

"But joking about murdering you is still fair game?" 

"Totally. Of course. Just don't joke about getting a Squip, and we're good."

“So, what about the phone number,” Christine asked. 

“I can't even remember it,” said Jeremy. “I wasn't exactly in a position to write it down.” 

“1-800… something, something, something, bla bla bla, searing pain,” muttered Rich. 

“I remember it! It was in the song!” said Brooke. “1-800-632-8847! Should we call it?”


	7. Chapter 7

Jeremy flinched at Brooke’s question. He was sitting up straight now, in the posture that his Squip had taught him, and putting every once of effort into that, because he was pretty sure that if he relaxed a little, he was going to pass out.

“We absolutely should not call the number,” Michael said. “If your Squips, or the organization that made them, or whatever, are trying to make you do something, you can bet it's a bad idea.”

“What do you think will happen if we _don't_ ,” asked Brooke. “Will Christine and I keep having the dreams? What about Rich and Jeremy?” 

“Mine wasn't just trying to get me to call a number, remember?” Rich said. “It was trying to motherfucking reinstall itself. It's bad enough that it won't shut up even when it's supposedly off. The last thing I need is for it to come back on for real.” 

“You think it will?” asked Christine. 

“I don't know what I think.” 

“What if we _did_ call the number?” said Jeremy. “You think maybe… like-like maybe they could get it out once and for all? I mean, they probably know what's going on more than we do, or the doctors at Beth Israel, and we already know that the Red has its limits.” 

“I don't know how many dreams about that phone number I can have _without_ calling it,” Brooked admitted. “Is it weird that I really want to call it?”

“Not weird,” said Michael. “Just stupid.” 

Brooke pursed her lips, in her patented kicked puppy look. 

“Who are you calling stupid?” asked Chloe.

“ _Nobody_.” Jeremy could hear the exasperation in Michael’s voice, and he understand it. He hadn't been calling Brooke stupid, just her idea. 

“Who are you calling nobody?” Chloe demanded. 

“Let's think about the pros and cons of calling the number,” said Christine, rummaging in her bag until she found a notebook at a pen. 

“Con, everything to do with Squips is bad. Pro, some of us have no impulse control,” said Michael, with a world-weary sigh. 

“Pro, it's a toll free number,” said Jenna. “We could theoretically call it from a pay phone, so they wouldn't be able to track us.” 

“Con, do pay phones even exist any more?” asked Brooke. 

“Hey Michael, where the nearest pay phone?” asked Chloe. 

“How am I supposed to know?” 

“You say that like you aren't our resident expert on all things outdated.”

“I'm going to write down what Jeremy said earlier,” Christine said. “About customer service possibly being able to get the Squip remnants out of our brains for good.” 

“Might be better to have the things on or out, instead of being in limbo all the fucking time,” Rich said. “Not that I want to back on, but this in between thing where the Squip is around but not is hell.” 

“Let's open it to a vote,” said Christine. “All in favor of calling the number, put up your hand.” 

Brooke’s hand went up first, then Chloe’s, then Jenna’s. Last of all came Rich. Jeremy’s fingers twitched in his lap. What if calling the number really could get his Squip out? What if they could fix it, and replace it with a new modal that helped without hurting? What if he was going to just have repeats of today until he buckled under the pressure and called? He looked over at Michael, who was glaring at Rich. 

“We don't have to decide now!” Jeremy blurted out. “We can w-wait. The number will be there when we need it, right? So…” he trailed off, unsure of where he was going with this, except that he was creating a sort of inevitable path. They were going to call the number eventually, but not tonight. 

“Let's agree that none of us is going to call the number until we’ve all agreed to do it,” Christine said.

“Until all of us who had Squips agree to do it,” said Chloe. “No Squip, no say.” 

“Because saving every one of your asses doesn't count for anything anymore?” Michael demanded. 

“I'm with Chloe,” said Rich.

Jake held out his hand, in a placating gesture. “You can be, like, our advisor, man.” 

“We’re not not giving you a say,” Jenna agreed. “We’re just not giving you a vote.” 

“That doesn't seem right,” Christine said softly, looking at Jeremy for support. 

“Michael is as involved in this as any of the rest of us,” Jeremy said. “I think he should get a vote.” 

“You would,” said Chloe. 

“I think it's up to Christine,” said Jake.

“Me?” 

“Well, yeah. You’re holding the notebook. That means you’re in charge.” 

“Because that's not totally arbitrary at all,” Rich muttered. Jeremy guessed that, had the comment come from anybody other than Jake, Rich would have argued. 

“Okay…” Christine said. “Okay. Fine. My official decree as holder of the notebook is that we don't call the number until everybody agrees, Michael included. The notebook has spoken. Long may it reign.” 

“Long may it reign,” Jake repeated, solemnly. 

“Riiiiiight,” said Brooke. 

“Since we’ve decided on a course of action, however stupid, can we call this meeting adjourned?” asked Chloe. 

“Well, I’m certainly done with it,” said Rich.

————-

Even as the others began to filter out, Jeremy kept up his straight-backed position, relying on tightness and tension to stave off collapse. Soon it was just him and Michael, who looked him over critically. 

“Now’s your cue to assure me that you’re steady enough to take a shower under your own power, otherwise I'm getting in with you, and it's gonna be hella weird and awkward,” said Michael.

Jeremy felt his entire body heating up. Michael wasn't wrong about the potential awkwardness. 

“Jer?” 

“Yeah, yeah. I'm uh… good to tackle my own personal hygiene. I'll scream like a lunatic if it comes back or whatever.” 

“Uh-huh,” Michael sounded unconvinced. Slowly, Jeremy pushed himself into a standing position, leaning on the arm of the couch for support. As soon as he did it, the entire room seemed to start swaying. The next thing Jeremy knew, Michael was gripping his arm. 

“Looks like I'm helping after all,” Michael said. 

(Helping in this case did not mean that Michael actually got in the shower with Jeremy. He did, however, sit in the room while Jeremy washed, to make sure he didn't faint and drown or something like that. It wasn't as awkward as feared.)


	8. Chapter 8

Michael tossed his hoodie and Jeremy’s clothes in the washing machine after Jeremy was done showering. He tried not to notice Jeremy repeatedly missing the leg hole of the borrowed pajama pants he was trying to get into, but there was something about Jeremy that made Michael’s peripheral vision annoyingly strong, like he had eyes in the back of his head, but they could only ever be bothered to look at one person. 

The best thing that Michael could do was leave the room for a minute to give Jeremy some privacy in his struggles. Outside in the hallway, Michael leaned against the wall, letting his head fall back against it with a thwack that was a little harder than necessary. He could recognize when things were going to shit. Somebody was going to call that number. Jeremy’s Squip was going to try and reinstall itself again, because no way in hell were they lucky enough to have that be a one off. They were going to fight it with Red, and Jeremy was going to continue to deteriorate, because there was only so much of that stuff he could take. Bad things were coming, and it was gonna suck. 

Michael tapped on the bathroom door to see if Jeremy was dressed yet. He got an affirmative sounding grunt, so he opened the door. He let Jeremy lean on him on the way to his basement, and he wrapped his arms around him when they lay down. Rich, in his obnoxious Rich way, had been right when he’d said that Michael would much rather be bro-spooning (brooning?) Jeremy than having Squip meetings, and setting up a puppet government, because seriously, the whole holder of the notebook thing? Bad idea. Michael trusted Christine with his life, but he couldn't help but think of Lord of the Flies, and the conch shell. God, somebody was going to end up dead by the end of this, weren't they?

“Get some rest,” Michael told Jeremy, in the voice of somebody who totally wasn't imagining his friends beheading each other and stuff like that . The other boy was already about three seconds away from passing out, with one arm wrapped around Michael, and his head, which had to be aching, resting on Michael’s chest. Jeremy’s damp hair left a clammy wet patch on Michael’s T-shirt, but it was okay because it was Jeremy, and he and Michael were practically married, at least insofar as two people who weren't even dating could be. 

They'd talked about dating. The months since Jeremy had gotten his Squip out had been full of revelations, a lot of them having to do with Michael and Jeremy coming to the realization that they had mad gigantic feelings when it came to each other. So they’d talked, they’d let down boundaries, they'd made out more than once, and then finally, they’d decided to _stop_ , at least for a while. Jeremy had already been through the jumping into a relationship head first only to realize it was a mistake thing with Christine. He was still sorting himself out, finding his voice, trying to work on not feeling crazy. That, and he had this inexplicable telepathic connection with Rich, who was getting waves of it anytime Jeremy and Michael did anything physical, and that was just weird for everybody involved. 

But dating Jeremy. That was still a possibility. It was a maybe down the road type of deal, and it was as good a reason as any to decide that they were going to get through this Squip resurgence, and this customer service thing. Michael didn't know what the solutions was going to be yet, but he’d find it. Probably it would be bizarre, but he already had ample experience fighting off robot-mind-control-zombies with expired soft drinks, so it wasn't like things could get that much weirder. 

Michael turned on the TV, and tried not to fidget and bounce so much that it would wake Jeremy up (staying still wasn't his strong point). Usually he'd just play with Jeremy’s hair, but he hated wet hair texture no matter who it belonged to. 

At around ten o’clock things got weirder. Jeremy’s phone buzzed, and he woke up enough to check it. He smiled, typed something back, and then nestled closer into Michael. 

“Rich?” Michael guessed.

“Yeah. Surprised he remembered to do it tonight. Thought he'd still be pissed at me.” 

The _it_ that Jeremy spoke of was this nightly ritual that he and Rich had. Rich would text Jeremy to remind him that the things his Squip had said about him weren't true, and Jeremy would text him back the same. From what Michael knew of it, the two of them had started out dead serious, but it had gotten more irreverent over time, with jokes, gifs, and whatever else the two of them wanted to talk about. 

The phone buzzed again. This time Jeremy groaned. 

“What?” Michael asked. 

“He knows I'm with you. He’s getting stuff.” 

“Thought he only got stuff when your feelings are mega strong?” 

“Fuck him,” Jeremy said. “It's a…a educated guess, and he’s messing with me.” To further express his annoyance, Jeremy buried his head against Michael’s neck. 

(Michael was lucky that Rich couldn't sense _his_ emotions, because whatever the circumstances, Michael’s reactions to Jeremy’s breath against his throat tended towards strong.)

The phone buzzed again. “Can I read what he’s sending?” asked Michael. 

“Only if you respond with something clever and scathing.” 

Michael typed in Jeremy’s password, squinted at the letters on the phone, then ruffled Jeremy’s hair. 

“Why does Michael smell so good,” he read out loud. “Not like, perfume good, but like Michael good.” 

“No,” Jeremy said.

“No what?” 

“You don't. You smell like weed.” 

“I'm texting Rich to ask him how he knows he’s not turned on by my weed smell, and blaming you for no good reason.” 

“Right. Rich needs to stop blaming me for his Michael lust.”

Michael typed in his response. A second later, the phone buzzed. “Rich says I don't let him get close enough to me for him to know what I smell like, so it’s definitely you.” 

“Who says you let me close enough?” Jeremy muttered. 

“Good point.” Michael squeezed Jeremy a little tighter. Another buzz. “Rich says you have a headache and want to go back to sleep.” 

“I'm going to stay up all night just to spite him,” Jeremy said sleepily. 

“You do that,” Michael said. 

What Michael did not say, was that he felt better for this little exchange. At least they could all joke about their shitty science fiction with existence, while doing their best to cope with it.


	9. Chapter 9

It was dark by the time Chloe finished dropping off Christine and Brooke, and finally pulled in to her own driveway. She leaned her head back against the seat of the car, closed her eyes, and just sat there for a moment, keys still in the ignition. There were Michael problems, Squip problems, Rich problems, Jeremy problems and a mountain of homework on top of all that. So much for senior year being the best time of her life! She'd just have to eek as much pleasure as possible out if college, before she got too old to ever have fun again. 

Chloe pushed herself up, swung open the car door, and slung her backpack over her shoulder. The strap got caught in her hair. Bullshit! She slammed the door behind her, stomped into her house, and up the stairs. Mom was in her office, typing away at something, dad in his office, typing away at something else. Probably there was food on the table waiting for Chloe, but what did she care? The only way she was going to finish her history paper was if she stayed up the whole night. 

Princess Aurora was sleeping on Chloe’s bed. Chloe threw her backpack on top of her, and she flickered, pixelating. Stupid, annoying computer chip. Less useful than the broken blender in Chloe’s kitchen, that mom was too lazy to replace. It was just like, mom didn't care that Chloe needed her smoothies to keep her skin from breaking out, and Princess Aurora didn't care that she wasn't needed, and never had been. 

Chloe booted up her computer, setting her phone on the desk next to it. She opened up a word document, and stared at it. What were they even studying in history? Was it the industrial revolution, or the American revolution, or the French Revolution? What was it with people and revolting? What was history, really, except an endless stream of dumb people fighting against forces, only to get bitten in the ass by other forces? It was enough to make anybody wish they could pass out for a hundred years. Maybe when they woke up, they'd be perfected, no effort necessary. Maybe they'd be cherished. 

Maybe the next revolution would have something to do with a too-late recall of contaminated tic-tacs, or perhaps a robot uprising. Wouldn't that be fun?

Chloe's phone buzzed. It was Jake. 

_Mine is really acting up. Dude thinks I need a pet. Like mega need a pet. What do you think of frogs? It says I'm lonely._

Another buzz. Christine in group chat asking if anybody else had issues with feeling weird and seeing bubbles. Chloe rolled her eyes. Christine was just the kind of person to see bubbles. The surprising thing was that that was even noteworthy enough to text anyone. 

Jeremy was suddenly very active in group chat, only it wasn't Jeremy, just Michael using Jeremy’s phone and losing his shit over Christine. Chloe wondered if Michael would come racing over to _her_ house if she started seeing bubbles. Gross thought, because Chloe didn't need Michael Mell rushing to her aid, but it pissed her off that he almost definitely wouldn't.

Standing up, Chloe reached through Aurora’s gently rising and falling bosom to get her notebook. He skin tingled with static. 

“You want to help me with my homework?” Chloe asked. No answer. At least Aurora didn't snore. 

Chloe's phone buzzed with Brooke’s ringtone. 

“Babe,” Chloe answered, on the second ring. “Hey. I'm glad you called. What's up in history class, anyway?” 

“The Middle Ages!” Brooke chirped. 

“Cool, like all of them?” 

“Pretty much. Not my era. I mean, some of it’s cool, I guess.” 

Chloe could hear Brooke pacing. She had to be about to explode. History was Brooke’s favorite class. Probably it was her favorite thing. 

“I know you’re dying to tell me all about the Middle Ages,” Chloe teased. 

“Am not!” 

“Yes, you are. Which one of your American Girl Dolls is the Middle Ages one?” 

“None of them! And they’re in the attic anyway. Oh my god, Chlo, are you paying attention to group chat? I think something might be up with Christine!” 

“Is she going to steal your dolls?” 

“No, I mean…”

“Are you setting up more play dates without me?” 

“That wasn't a play date. It was… Hey Chloe, have you been seeing your Squip at all? I'm serious here. Shits going down.” 

Chloe scoffed. “Obviously not.” 

“Not even in dreams?” 

“Nope. You gonna call the number?” 

Aurora rolled over in bed. Big activity for her. 

“Maybe? I think I want the others backing me if I do, you know?” 

“Uh-huh. Well, I'm backing you no matter what you decide. Just ‘cause they arbitrarily made up some rules, doesn't mean that _we_ have to follow them. We’re not a hive mind. We can do what we want.”

“You want me to write your history paper for you?” Brooke asked. “I kinda need the distraction.” 

“Just don't make it too extra,” Chloe said. 

“I won't!” 

The problem with generously giving Brooke her distraction was that that meant Chloe got no distraction of her own. She spent half an hour dropping things on Aurora and watching her pixilate, like ripples in a lake. Then Chloe shook her head to clear it, pushed the crap off her bed, and lay down to watch nextflix, keeping a few inches between herself and the sleeping princess.

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't call the phone number I gave for Squip Customer Service. I made it up off the top of my head. 
> 
> The physical symptoms Jeremy experienced were tiny bits of nanotechnology trying to reassemble itself around his brain and spine. Just go with it. 
> 
> Feedback is very much appreciated. I more or less live for comments.
> 
> To Be Continued


End file.
